When I lived in Miami Beach at the Dunes Beach Club, I would leave my door open the better to see who was walking by. I set up my desk next to the door, one pace away from an outdoor balcony corridor. Beyond the balcony were a few palm trees, then a pool, then the ocean.

The Dunes was a motel built somewhere in the 1950s, in the day when Miami was presumed to become the next Las Vegas, complete with gambling and swanky entertainment. The Mafia had plans for the place. The Dunes was one of the last Cuban-style, Art Deco motels on the island of Miami Beach; they were being steadily torn down for condo towers, and the Dunes was on the way out, based on some future contract for sale and development.

It was a real artifact, with a dinner theater that once served seven-course dinners and now lay abandoned. There was a vast circular lobby featuring a glass chandelier that was supposedly smuggled off the island in the last days before Castro took power.

With the exception of several secret apartments scattered around the first floor and the sprawling penthouse of the complex, every guest room was identical: white-tiled, with a little kitchen island and air conditioning that reproduced Arctic conditions. I had dismantled my AC vent’s grill and covered the opening with thick plastic, and screwed the grill back in an attempt to seal out the cold. The leakage was enough to keep my room comfortably cool.

Once a tropical destination, in the era I was there, the place’s two hundred guest rooms were occupied by a wild mix of anyone might show up. There were long-term residents, there were snowbirds who owned their rooms, and about a third left over as motel rooms for tourists. The total population included all manner of travelers from Europe or South America, plus assorted riffraff, locals having a posh night out, Long Island Jews down for winter and me hanging out writing horoscopes.

And there was Xanax Man selling tranquilizers outside in the parking lot below my balcony starting at about 7 every night getting more stoned by the hour. Early in the evening, he would say, “Anyone want some Xanax?” By 11 pm he would joyfully announce to passers-by, “Annyvun mant zom Vamax?!”

One afternoon a few weeks before Y2K I noticed a woman kept striding past my door. All I could really see were her very long legs, her rather high heels and her blonde hair cascading behind her like a trail of smoke.

This woman stood out, and she kept striding by, coming and going from countless unamed errands. She was never carrying anything. A tiny purse swung against her ribs. She would not make eye contact with me when she passed. I could feel the tension and delighted in it.

Again the next day she kept coming and going, still not admitting my existence. When I blurted out a little hello she looked at me and smiled and kept going. The next six or eight times she went past, she got gradually friendlier, till I was finally able to engage her in a conversation standing in my doorway.

She was Russian. She seemed to tower over me, but then at first I was sitting; maybe she was 6 feet or taller in her heels, in which she seemed to skate. I learned the following: She was applying for a Green Card. She had studied literature in Moscow, specializing in a writer named Gogol. She wanted to live in the United States. She said her name was Natasha. I asked if that was really her name and she said yes. She also mentioned that a fiend of hers was coming later that night for the weekend, another Russian woman named Sonia.

Somehow the conversation drifted down the outdoor corrudor to Natasha’s room; I think she had to get something and I followed her as we talked. She lived on my floor, at the end of the balcony, about 20 paces down. She had some huge suitcases big enough live out of or even to live in. I asked where she was coming from and she said California. When I get in these kinds of conversations, such as about the details of a person’s life or travels, I usually stop asking background questions and keep the focus on the present, which is much more interesting. I am more interested in the future.

Which she mentioned happened to involve her friend Sonia arriving a few hours later.

“Do you know somewhere good we can go?”

I suggested Grillfish, a swanky new seafood place in the heart of South Beach. She liked the idea and thanked me — and to my surprise, she invited me to join them. Her invitation came with perfect ease and grace. It is experiences like this that teach men to be persistent. It also suggests this is the quality that many of the most selective women may indeed be seeking: the willingness to dare, and to risk rejection.

A few hours later I knocked on Natasha’s door, and Sonia was standing there looking at me. She was breathtaking, wearing a white summer dress with sweet, sweet eyes and a mouth made to kiss. I literally gasped, just a little, and she noticed.

Confident and clear, she shook my hand and looked right at me and we had instant rapport. Her black hair and unworldly blue eyes and lovely fair skin were merely decorative compared to her animated spirit. I might have considered a woman of her charm and beauty out of my league, however, she was not leaving any room for doubt. Everything about her was saying hello. It occurred to me that she’d decided before I had even arrived.

Sonia led us to her car. It was a deep red Jaguar. I promptly slipped into the back seat, which was pretty small, knowing that Natasha would never fit without dangling her feet out the window. The sublime cruise down to South Beach lasted about 15 minutes.

Grillfish was one of those serious places obsessed with getting it right. Every meal was delicious and presented beautifully. The women had gone through two bottles of wine. After eating, we had coffee and hung out for a while, watching the Friday night crowd float by.

After a while we decided to head back, though women were too drunk to drive, particularly with an anti-DUI campaign all over the news. I’d only had one beer hours ago, which meant I was the designated driver of a red Jaguar. It was about 9 o’clock, still early. I sat down in the driver’s seat, cushioned in leather and wood. It was a stick shift. I’ve never been happier that driving standard is one of my consecrated male pleasures.

I adjusted the seat and the mirrors a bit, started the car, or rather I touched the ignition and it sprung to life, and as I shifted through the gears we all snaked through some side streets of South Beach aboard this living thing. I turned left at Starbucks and then left again, north up A1A, or Collins Ave. Someone sparked up a joint and passed it to me. I am not the smoking and driving type, but I made an exception.

Suddenly everything was cinematic with the smooth feeling of a steadicam. We cruised past the astonishing condo complexes along the Atlantic coastline, into the canyon of echos into which a thousand condo windows faced, then long blocks lined with high apartment structures, mile after mile of them. Then there was the small, strange brick one, called The Cornelian.

I was driving in this style on a warm, delightful night with two stunning women I had just met, chatting away in Russian, windows open, cool breeze blowing in and the scent of cannabis in the salty, muggy air.

We pulled up at the Dunes. I parked along side next to the row of palm trees, away from Xanax man. Without hesitation, Natasha led us back to her room. From what I was reading in Sonia, she wanted to get both our clothes off. Out of the little fridge she produced a bottle of champaign, opened it, and poured it into those clear plastic motel cups.

She sat cross-legged on the bed. I had picked up on her plan and watched her work her friend. I could not tell but I suspected they were part-time lovers. However, Natasha was resisting. Sonia was steamy and ready for fun, but her friend was going in the other direction. Suddenly she was talking about getting an early start and going to bed.

When Natasha went to the loo, Sonia shrugged and gave me the I don’t have a clue face.

I said, “You can come back to my place.”

Natasha, back from the loo, objected, using various excuses such as how tired she was and what a long day it had been. My eyes bugged out and I almost laughed.

Sonia got up from the bed, took my hand and said, “I’ll be back later.” She opened the door and we walked out, she pulled the door shut and we strode down the corridor in a beautiful teenage moment.

I turned the key to my room and we walked in. Sonia flipped on the light. In front of the floor-length extra-wide mirror on the double closet doors was a towel and an assortment of sex toys, mirrors and my underwear. I had forgotten all about the remnants of my party from the previous night.

She walked over, studied the assortment of objects, picked up a hand mirror and smiled at me. She put it down delicately.

I turned on the ambient lighting, a soft lamp and candles, as she poked around my space. Then she sat down on the couch and lit a joint, taking a couple of long drags and passing it to me. It was skunky and deep, full-bodied cannabis indica. Whatever type it was, it was the horny kind. I stood there looking at this gorgeous little woman in her white dress with her knees pulled up and a hint of her vulva peeking out of the folds. I leaned in and smelled behind her ear, delighting in her sweaty perfumed scent.

Then she guided me over to the bed and started undressing me, her wildblue eyes piercing into me with need and want.

She kissed me intuitively, sucking my lips and tongue into her mouth. I sighed and relaxed deeply and tasted her, and smelled her mouth eagerly, lavishing in her human fruit as I caressed her hips. I wanted one experience, which was to spread her thighs and taste the nectar that was welling up inside her. I had every intention of doing so.

I kissed her neck and her shoulder and the place between her breasts, but she pushed me back and guided me to lay back and relax. She had the same intention, only for me. A few more garments on the floor and I was naked. She was still wearing her slinky dress. I wanted to let go and had no reason not to. There was no need to rush. She was going for the full experience, which currently involved taking my cock deep into her mouth and then down her throat.

I am not the blowjob type. I’m not usually interested, but if my partner is, then I’m right there. But this was not a blowjob: it was full on mouth fucking, and I moaned in harmony with her offering, and this she seemed to be loving, wanting, wanting to give. Then she stopped, and knelt up on the bed. She wanted to be naked.

She pulled her dress over her head and tossed it aside. I’d been noticing those full breasts swaying braless under the fabric of her outfit and was soaking in the visual beauty of seeing her naked nipples and their large, creamy areolae surrounding her adorable nipples. She resumed sucking me, subduing me with the unusually delightful feeling as I watched her face swallow me, her thumbs clasped around the base of my cock.

Secretly, I was being patient.

I needed to smell her cunt.

The entirety of my instinctual nature was attuned to this one biological focus. Her ass was in the air pointed away from me. I wanted to see her vulva protrude from behind her, and lean in and take a deep inhalatious breath through my nose and feel her.

I tried to shift our positions so I could get a little closer to doing so. She avoided me.

Then I tried to slip around her, but she stopped me.

You can’t, she whispered loudly.

Why? I whispered back. I had no idea what the answer would be.

I’m married.

I laughed out loud. What do you mean married?

Immigration married.

Suddenly I understood: some lucky someone got to marry her, give her citizenship, and fuck her. It occurred to me that he drove a red Jaguar.

I want to lick you. I have to smell you. I must fuck you!

Well you can’t. Just relax.

Arrrrrrrgh!!!! I said it out loud. She laughed.

Just a little taste.

No.

Just a little sniff.

She paused, and I thought she might say yes.

No!

I was familiar with this logic: you can’t touch me, you can’t taste me, but I can suck you and that’s not cheating. I’ve noticed that married women often have this thing, this policy or exception. It at least got me this close to her. I could look at her hips and crave and dream, and I did. Then she sucked me into her mouth and throat in the singular gesture of I’m going to drink your cum. We were not that different.

She pushed my legs up and started to tease around my asshole with her hot tongue. Stunned into orbit by the physical pleasure and the emotional contact, I opened my eyes to make sure it was really happening. Her dark hair cascaded around my ass. She circled around and plunged into me. I gasped, and then moaned. I clasped her hand and she wove her fingers into mine.

Then she slipped a finger up my slick ass and resumed sucking me as she pressed on my prostate. She knew what she was doing. She knew what she wanted. Suddenly I relaxed and gave into what she was making inevitable. Then all at once she stopped. She sat up, and I looked at her. She spread her legs wide for a moment to give me a peek of what I wanted so desperately, and then went back to sucking me. I was about to go insane with desire and I think this was her plan; she wanted to drink up my desire as I let it out, so the more the better.

I didn’t choose to orgasm. Rather, the ejaculation started to fill me up. First it seemed like I had a warm bubble of liquid inside me, which then expanded and grew and stretched and I knew it was about to burst and fill me up. Then I was convulsing. My entire body and all my emotions had become my ejaculation.

I looked at her and her eyes were wide and she gazed at me and we held eye contact as the first waves of my orgasm crashed over us.

My body gave way to one purpose, which was producing semen in climactic waves of surrender to existence. I moaned right into her eyes as she gulped me and then I went blotto, blank to black and crashed my head into the soft pillows behind me and thrust my cock deeper into her mouth, which she accepted joyfully, grunting as she swallowed.

After a few moments she slipped me out of her mouth and kissed me. Her lips and tongue were sticky with my seed though she had swallowed most of it. I could taste myself in her mouth and I sucked in whatever liquid I could get from her. Even her spit would do. We kissed languidly for a while. She was generous and I held her and smelled her as our tongues danced.

Then she drew back, collected her white dress and sandles, walked nude out of my room and into the dim morning light, onto the open balcony corridor, past my window and to Natasha’s room, where she’d been simmering in jealousy and pent-up sex. Sonia would be getting into bed all plump and wet, and both women would be aching and hungry.